A Christmas Story
by calicoskies4ever
Summary: A Christmas story for the post-holiday season. Takes place at the end of Damned if You Do, a HouseWilson fic about what the boys might have done that Christmas Warning: Slash, sex, swearing, and some references to child abuse, slightly OOC.


A Christmas story for the post-holiday season. Takes place at the end of _Damned if You Do_, a House/Wilson story exploring what the boys might do on Christmas Eve. Warning: Slash, sex, swearing, and some references to child abuse. Also slightly OOC, but I think I explain that one pretty well. Even though it doesn't specifically relate to any of my other stories I would recommend that you at least skim the story _The Doctor's Doctor_ or _The Story of a Scar _if you want to know more about the specific things I've decided John House must have done to his son.

"No one knows what its like,  
to be the bad man;  
to be the sad man,  
behind blue eyes.  
No one knows what its like,  
to be hated;  
to be fated,  
to telling only lies," The Who

A Christmas Story Chapter One:

"Your wife doesn't mind being alone on Christmas?" House asked, with no real interest in the actual answer. I think he just wanted to either A: annoy me to the point of making me go away, or B: fore me to admit that my marriage was only months away from failure, again. All of my wives have always hated him, which isn't surprising. Bonnie even figured out what the two of us were doing, spending all of our time together. In exchange for her silence she got to keep the dog, our dog. Hector was close as I'll ever get to having a child, and _he_ loved me unconditionally. Even after my having left him for all these years one dog biscuit from me would earn his forgiveness. Kids aren't like that, nobody's like that. I'm too screwed up to be a parent. Any kid of mine would probably turn out like…Greg.

"I'm a doctor. She's used to being alone." The words slipped out before I even realized I was thinking of them, and then he looked at me strangely. "I don't wanna talk about it," I added, as soon as I possibly could, but it was too late. He already knew.

"Neither do I," his voice said in such a tone as to tell me that I wouldn't be getting off that easily. We stopped by the pharmacy on the way out, him happy for an extra bottle of pills, calling it the best present he ever got (…although with his history it could have been true) and me just hoping he'd get stoned and forget to investigate my previous statement. The two of us sat in the living room, drinking beer and eating Chinese food without saying anything more than, "Pass the soy sauce," or "Change the channel, if I have to watch _It's a Wonderful Life_ one more time I'll shoot somebody—probably myself."

At about 8:00 he scooted closer to me on the couch, kissed me on the cheek, and then on the mouth, possessively forcing my lips open as though I wouldn't have done the same thing given the choice. He pushed me down, grinding against my thigh, his hard cock outlined against his pants. House only acts rough when he goes too long without getting some, or when he's starting to get blue balls. So I quickly popped the button on his fly, unzipped his pants, and pulled both them and the soft blue and white boxers down to his ankles. Avoiding all contact with the sensitive scar and the surrounding area on his right thigh, I placed my hands on his hips, before wrapping my lips over his quivering manhood and sucked him off.

Afterwards all I had to do was say, "mouthwash," and go where he pointed, before things returned to normal. Most people would think something was wrong between us, all of this lack of communication, all this silence, but just the opposite is true. Greg and I are so comfortable together that we don't need to make small talk.

XX

"People only talk if there's something they interesting they have to say, or if there's a problem, a big one that can't be avoided. Everything else is just idiots going on and on so that the people they're around can't sit there judging them, thinking bad thoughts, deciding they don't like each other after all. You know there's something wrong with a relationships when two people don't even shut up when they're alone together," House had told me once.

"You should write a self help book," I'd responded in a quick, but effective comeback. He just smiled, and nodded quietly, as if I had proved his point. "So how's our relationship?" I asked.

"Better than most, but then again we've known each other for almost twenty years. Unless you get mad at me or I screw up, we've already said anything. We're comfortable, like warn in jeans or a good pair of Nikes."

"Did you just compare me to an old sneaker?" I'd asked back then, but he only shrugged. House had always hated Christmas, even when things in his life were going well. Actually come to think of it, his reaction to Christmas was the only thing that _didn't_ change after the infarction.

XX

Mostly I think the holiday reminds Greg of all the previous disappointments. This year he told me how he woke up the year after he tuned five only to discover that at some point during the night not only had Santa _not_ come, but his mother hadn't been able to convince John House to let her put the only toy she'd been allowed to buy him under the tree.

"Not to mention what Daddy did the on Christmas Eve, after Mommy went beddy bye," he murmured upon telling me the story. "I hate Christmas." House began breathing heavily, pressing into my side in an attempt to try and save face. He continued to repeat the phrase over and over while I rubbed him on the back, between his shoulder blades, and promised to protect and take care of him (not that he actually believed me) and told Greg how much I loved him. "I'm not Scrooge," he said, at last, when he had calmed down. "I just learned that if you expect people to be good and nice and gentle with you and open yourself up to all that then you get crushed like a bug or a—anyway, you get what I'm trying to get at here, right?"

"What about me? Do you think you could ever find a way to—feel like I'm trustworthy enough to be—maybe—let me be nice to you?" I asked, moving my hand from his back to his hair, which seemed to help him even more. I don't think he realized I was even doing it, which maybe could have had an effect on it, maybe…

"You're already nice to me, Jimmy, but as far as what I expect from you—not really sure. You're not gonna _hurt _me, haven't got it in you, not that you could if you wanted, but…I don't act like a jerk because I don't know any better. Not like I actually need Cameron to come live here and hug me back to being human." I couldn't tell if he was screwing with me or if his usual defenses had been weakened by beer and too many Vicodin.

"Look, uh, I know I snap at you sometimes, call you names, and act like you're a monster, but I think I'm just projecting my anger and frustration with Julie onto you. I think I feel less horrible than yelling at you than her, which is screwed up and wrong, 'cuz not only do you not deserve it, but my doing those things only makes you shut down even more. And by the way, nobody needs to do anything to make you human, you're already one of us."

"Could of sworn I just said the exact same thing five seconds ago. I've got problems, know that, but I also know that I am a person, just as—like everybody else, only smarter, lots smarter. Especially compared to you. Like a million, billion times more smart than you could ever hope to be." House was avoiding my questions, because he really, really didn't want to talk about this stuff, and I almost let him go.

I knew there was a good chance of either pushing the guy too hard and loosing him for good (which was always a risk when I tried to get Greg to open up) or that he would get scared/ upset and stop me before we got anywhere. At the same time I felt like I had to keep going no matter how much it hurt, because this was such a rare occurrence.

"I'm not going to ask you to throw down your defenses, mainly because I think these blockades you use to keep everybody away are the only things keeping you from going completely insane, but I also think you need to try and talk with me once in a while so we can figure out ways to make you feel safe, comfortable, so you don't have to act like an ass when we're alone."

"Can't believe what an idiot you can be sometimes! The whole point I was trying to make is that can't just shut this stuff off! I can either cry and be stupid and weak all the time so you can 'make me feel _better_' which we both know is James Wilson's secret code for 'I'm fixing House so that the whole world will be a wonderful place, and I get to be the hero because everybody's gonna know that I was the one who turned him from a frog into a prince!'" He was really screaming at me now, furious, but there were rears he was just barely holding back in the corners of his eyes, like acting angry with me was a cover for his hurt feelings.

Even though he had only half finished his statement I interrupted him, wrapping my arms around his body, and pulling him close. I laid down and took him with me, despite his attempts to escape, because he needed to be near me so I'd know he was really listening and he'd know I wasn't trying to (that I would never) hurt him.

"Listen to me—House, list—listen because this is really important. I. Love. You. I love you. I _love_ you. My feelings will never change, no matter how long we're together, regardless of your behavior. God that? _I love you_, happy or depressed, on the Vicodin or off, mean or nice. I don't care how you act in public, or in private. Greg, you could kick me in the balls every day for the next two million years and I wouldn't feel any different—emotionally. Oh come on, that was hilarious," I told him, gently, but didn't get much of an actual response.

"The only thing I want to change about any of this is your pain. I will do whatever it takes, whatever you want, whatever you need me to do, to make as much of your pain go away as I possibly can. You could be twice the jerk that you are now, a hundred times more mean, I _don't care_. House, the only person or thing on this planet that I care about in any way is, you. I want _you_ to feel happy or safe or nothing as all, just so long as that is what _you_ want. Nobody ever has to know about this. I don't give a shit about any of those idiots at the hospital, or anywhere else in the whole world. _I love you_, and will do whatever you tell me to do, even if you told me to go away and leave you alone forever."

When I had first started to talk to him, it seemed like House was going to interrupt me and so I had loosened my grip slightly so he'd know that I had no intention of forcing him into anything. Somehow this worked; his body became less rigid in my arms, and he even began looking into my eyes, making sure I was being truthful. I stopped talking once I'd said everything I felt was necessary, but he then continued to stare into me for over an hour.

Then, Greg popped a pill into his mouth, chewed and swallowed it, with a grimace, and nodded towards me, solemnly. He muttered something like, "never interrupt me again, or we're finished." Of course, I promised I wouldn't, and _would _keep my promise, knowing that (probably) nobody else had ever kept a promise they had made him before, at least never on anything this important. So, when House agreed, it seemed like a miracle, the best Christmas (or Chanukah) present I'd ever gotten.

He lay at my side, crying slightly, and then inhaling and exhaling sharply for a long time, like he was trying his damndest not to cry. Somewhere around midnight, he lifted his wet, red-eyed face, blew his nose on my shirtsleeve (which, disgusting as it was, I ignored because he was testing me) and said, "I'm ready to talk now."

"Good," I told him, my fingers, continuing to softly smooth and stroke his hair, as they had been doing almost all night. "Just start with whatever you want, whatever your comfortable with that is," I explained, and he gave me a confused look. "It's okay, really. This is a safe environment. Nothing you say leaves the apartment."

"I get to pick what we talk about?" he asked, and for a moment I thought he might cry again, but then his face changed. His usually emotionless stare was replaced with a familiar, though seldom seen, sly smile. "Then I wanna talk about you and Julie and this whole "I'm a doctor she's used to being alone," thing," he told me. Then I smiled too, and for the first time since—well since I'd met him actually—I thought I just might be able to make him feel a little, tiny bit happier.


End file.
